


Childish things

by BrighteyedJill



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, As described in canon, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Baby Witchers, Being a witcher can kind of suck, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, victim blaming kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: Geralt has always loved stories about knights and kings and dragons. Unfortunately, such tales aren't always compatible with the life of a witcher.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir
Comments: 32
Kudos: 116
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #004





	Childish things

“And then the noble knight said, ‘I have sworn to bring justice to this kingdom, and I will not fail in my duty!’ The king sneered, and he said, ‘Then you have chosen death.’”

The dormitory full of witcher trainees gasped, and Geralt squeezed Eskel’s hand, breathless with excitement. Eskel squeezed back, but didn’t take his eyes from Kieren, the trainee telling the tale. Kieren was a handful of years older; he’d already gone through the Trial of the Grasses, and his yellow eyes shone in the candlelight as he continued his tale.

“The noble knight drew his blade and prepared to face his sovereign.”

“What’s a sovereign?” Gweld hissed.

“Like royalty,” Fes whispered, elbowing him. “Shhh!”

“‘Better death than dishonor!’ shouted the knight, and charged across the throne room towards--”

“What is happening here?”

Geralt’s head whipped around at the sound of Master Vesemir’s stern voice. Some of the other trainees scampered back to their beds. Geralt tightened his grip on Eskel’s hand, but didn’t run. If they were in trouble, they wouldn’t be any less so by running, and witchers were supposed to be brave. Kieren pushed to his feet.

“Explain yourself, trainee,” Vesemir demanded.

“I was only telling a story,” Kieren said, but he hung his head in such a way that Geralt realized he’d known it hadn’t been allowed.

“Go back to your dormitory and wait for me,” Vesemir said, tightly controlled but clearly furious.

“Yes, Master Vesemir.” Kieren slunk out of the room, making himself as small as possible to edge through the doorway past him.

“Boys.” Vesemir swept his eyes over the assembled trainees, the ones hiding in their beds and the ones still gathered in a broken semi-circle around the hearth. “Any of you caught listening to trainee Kieren’s stories in future will receive twenty strokes with a belt. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Master Vesemir,” they all chorused, as automatic as breathing.

Geralt looked at Eskel, eyes wide with dismay. He’d come to love the tales of kings and knights the older boys told. And Kieren, who’d humored Geralt enough to accept an invitation to the younger trainees’ dorm to share his stories, was now in trouble for it.

“Master Vesemir?” Eskel piped up. Vesemir turned a severe look on him, but Eskel didn’t flinch. “Would you tell us a story instead?” Eager murmurs rose from all corners of the room.

Vesemir didn’t say no immediately, and Geralt thought his expression may have softened just a touch. “It’s past time you were all in bed,” he said at last. “Another night, perhaps.”

Geralt climbed into his narrow bunk and watched Vesemir snuff all the room’s candles with a finely drawn Sign. He dreamt of riding a white steed with a flowing mane, on his way to defend honor and righteousness.

“It’s not fair!” Geralt kicked savagely at a loose stone in the small courtyard, then continued pacing.

“I know.” Eskel had found a perch on a rickety bench pushed against the wall, and was watching Geralt pace. His black eye was already fading; the swift healing bestowed by the most recent round of Changes was still a novelty, but Geralt felt a brief rush of relief knowing that Eskel wouldn’t suffer the consequences of this fight for long.

“I didn’t even start it,” Geralt muttered. “Gweld did.”

“I saw.”

“He would have beaten the life out of Lambert. The kid hasn’t even gone through his first trials yet!”

“And still manages to piss off more people than any other trainee in Kaer Morhen,” Eskel said, almost fondly.

“What was I supposed to do, just leave him there?” Geralt kicked another rock. This one skidded across the dirt to bounce off the boots of the man who’d just appeared in the entryway.

“Yes, trainee. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.” Master Vesemir stood with his arms crossed, having approached with the soundless grace only full witchers could achieve. “Eskel. Go back to the training yard. You’ll be working in the kitchens every morning for the next week. Go.”

“Yes, Master Vesemir.” Eskel shot Geralt a sympathetic glance, then slowly walked away under Vesemir’s heavy gaze, managing to keep his back straight and his chin up.

When he was gone, Vesemir turned that glare on Geralt. “Would you care to explain to me what you think you were doing?”

“Gweld and Fes were hurting Lambert,” Geralt blurted out. “They think because he’s so small for his year and isn’t any good at keeping his temper, they can wind him up and then beat on him and he won’t be able to stop them.”

“That’s what Gweld and Fes were doing,” Vesemir said flatly. “What were _you_ doing?”

“Stopping them.” Geralt’s fists clenched involuntarily at his sides, itching to throw another punch. He hadn’t really gotten to teach his fellow trainees the lesson he wanted to.

“Wrong.”

Vesemir’s sharp voice knocked Geralt out of his musings. Geralt turned around to see Vesemir’s face set in tight, angry lines that meant someone had done something really wrong. And Vesemir had turned that look on _Geralt_.

“You were sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’ve seen entirely too much of that from you, and what’s worse, now you’re dragging your classmates into it.” Vesemir’s frown deepened. “You’re not going to tell me this was Eskel’s idea, are you?”

“It was the right thing to do!” Geralt couldn’t believe Vesemir didn’t understand that.

“No. For someone else, perhaps. Not for a witcher.”

“What’s right for one man is right for every man.” Geralt thought he might have heard that exact line in a story, and he thought it sounded very fine.

“We are not men.” Vesemir rubbed his forehead. “Sit down Geralt.”

Geralt sat. To his surprise, Vesemir settled on the bench next to him.

“Imagine you’re out on the Path,” Vesemir said.

Geralt had no trouble imagining what had occupied his daydreams for years: him with two swords slung over his back, in magnificent armor and black-dyed leathers, with his gleaming silver Wolf medallion.

“As you walk into a town, you see two local toughs beating up a youth,” Vesemir said, and Geralt settled in to listen. “He’s badly hurt, and he’s pleading for them to stop, but they show no sign of doing so. What do you do?”

“I stop them,” Geralt said immediately.

“How?”

Geralt took a moment to consider. Vesemir wouldn’t have asked if there wasn’t a right and a wrong answer. “By… telling them I’ll hurt them if they don’t stop.”

“They don’t believe you,” Vesemir said. “Now what?”

“I fight them.” Geralt didn’t think there were any two humans, no matter how tough, who could stand for long against a full witcher. “See how they like being beaten by someone bigger.”

“You kill one of them with a punch that snaps his neck. The other runs away screaming. Are you going to chase him down and kill him?”

“No!” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. Vesemir was telling this wrong. This wasn’t how it would go, when he was a witcher. “I’m going to help the other man, the one they were hurting.”

“He’s crawling away, shouting at you to keep back, and begging for mercy.”

“I tell him I’m not gonna hurt him.”

Vesemir tutted. “With the corpse of that other man cooling on the ground, he most certainly does not believe you. Now what?”

“I… leave him alone, I guess.” That didn’t seem right, Geralt thought, leaving an injured man to fend for himself. “And head into town?”

“The man you didn’t kill is already there, telling everyone of the murderous witcher who attacked his friend,” Vesemir said, and didn’t give Geralt a chance to reply. “As soon as the townspeople see you, they start throwing stones and chase you away. You then have no work and no coin. When the next witcher shows up, they attack him without even a warning. He’s lucky to escape with his life. The necrophages a witcher could easily have dealt with multiply, and within a year, everyone in the village is dead.”

“Well it’s their own fault for driving witchers away!” Geralt scowled.

“No, Geralt.” Vesemir settled a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “It would be your fault, for giving them an excuse to reject you. Humans are always looking for a reason not to trust witchers. It’s a witchers job to kill monsters, and we can’t do that if we can’t get along with humans. The correct thing to do in a situation like that is _keep moving_. Witchers don’t take sides.”

“But--”

“No,” Vesemir said firmly. “This childish nonsense has to stop. You’re never going to be a valiant knight, Geralt. Gods willing, you will become a witcher. And when you do, you cannot get involved with fights that are not your business. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master Vesemir.” Geralt stared at the ground. His face felt hot, and his throat tight.

“I will not have you getting involved with anything like this again.” Vesemir’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Swear to me you will stop interfering in the other boys’ squabbles.”

“I swear,” Geralt said in a very small voice.

“It’s time you met a real man,” the rotten-toothed bandit said, as he fondled the girl’s exposed breast. Geralt could smell him even from thirty paces away: revolting.

“It’s time you met one, too,” Geralt said as he stepped into the man’s line of sight, steel already drawn. “Let go of her.”

“Oh, a witcher, is it? Piss off, I saw her first.” The man shook the girl by her hair. She whimpered, and the other bandits standing around the cart laughed.

“Leave her alone,” Geralt said warningly, and took a step forward.

“Ooo, a white knight, this one is. Tell you what, mutant, how’s about you--”

Geralt moved fast, closing the distance between them and striking out with an overhand cut that sliced the bald man’s throat. Gurgling, the man reeled back, but he didn’t let go of the girl’s hair. Geralt pirouetted gracefully and took the man’s head off with a spectacularly powerful strike. He’d killed his first monster.

The other ragtag bandits began to flee into the woods, and after a moment of consideration, Geralt let them go. He stepped forward to drag the bandit’s headless corpse off the poor girl. “It’s alright, you’re safe now,” he told her.

Blood-streaked and wild-eyed, she looked up at him and screamed. Then she vomited copiously, making Geralt jump back to avoid the splash, and collapsed into the dirt.

The girl’s father had already jumped down from the cart, and ran to pull her into his arms. “Mercy, sir!” he cried. “Please don't kill us. We haven’t much, but I’ll give you all our coin if you spare the girl.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Geralt said, holding up a hand beseechingly.

“Please, sir. I’ll give you anything! “ the man sobbed, throwing his body over the girl’s. “She’s not even of an age to be married, please let her be. Mercy, I beg you, sir.”

“I’m not going to--” Even as he spoke, Geralt could see his assurances were useless, standing there with sword in hand and armor spattered with blood. He backed away slowly. “I’m leaving. I won’t hurt your daughter. Look, I’m leaving now.”

Geralt broke into a run to escape the man’s pleading. Once he could hear only the birds, he sank to his knees in the dusty road.

Eskel was waiting at the gate of Kaer Morhen when Geralt arrived, as he had every year of the last decade or so when he was lucky enough to arrive for the winter first. He embraced Geralt, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t comment on his clothes, more threadbare than usual, or the gold broach attached to his sword, or the way Geralt didn’t meet his eyes.

He stayed at Geralt’s side through dinner, taking on all the conversational duties with those Wolves already arrived. Whenever Geralt looked up, he saw Vesemir’s eyes on him, assessing. But as soon as the plates were cleared, Eskel took Geralt by the arm and steered him upstairs, deftly deflecting the others’ objections to abandoning the traditional after-dinner drinking and carousing.

Eskel stuck Geralt in a chair as he built up the fire in his room, then took the seat facing him and asked, “What happened?”

“There was a princess…” Geralt began.

The corner of Eskel’s mouth turned up, pulling on his scar. It wasn’t the first time Geralt had started a story that way.

“She needed my help.” Geralt hadn’t said this to anyone yet. No one had asked him. “I... couldn’t save her.”

“You tried.” Eskel reached out to put a hand on Geralt’s knee. “I know you. I can imagine how it was.”

“You can’t. I killed… and then her, too.” Geralt shook his head. “Vesemir was right. It’s my fault. Trying to be something I’m not.”

“What’s that?” Eskel asked.

“Good. Noble.” Geralt let out a shuddery breath. “But I can’t be. None of us can. It’s not how they made us.”

“You came closer than the rest of us.” Eskel leaned closer, making Geralt look up at him. “What if I’d been there in your place? I’ll wager my whole year’s harvest of basilisk venom that all the same humans would be dead, and more besides. If you couldn’t save this princess, no one could.”

“No.” Geralt’s bitter laugh made Eskel frown. “You would have walked away, like we’re supposed to. Not created another nightmare story about witchers that humans will use to frighten their children.”

“I frighten plenty of children already,” Eskel said, tilting his face to show the scar.

“Funny. They don’t have a reason to be scared of you.” Geralt pushed to his feet and went to stand by the fire. “Vesemir tried to warn me. I should have listened.”

“You’ve got to do what you think is right,” Eskel said from behind him. “You always have.”

“What’s right for a knight isn’t right for a witcher,’ Geralt said. He hadn’t believe it before, not really.

“Don’t worry about that now.” Eskel stepped up beside him, and bumped his shoulders. “You’re here. You don’t have to go back out there for months yet.”

But he would have to go back out eventually. By the time he did, Geralt was determined to overcome that stubborn part of himself that still thought he was a noble knight, fighting for truth and honor. He was a witcher, and that was all he’d ever be.


End file.
